Palettes
by nezstereo
Summary: And slowly, the color began to return to the world..." A series of one-shots, taking place after "The History of The World". Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd begin to adapt to a new life. Sweenett, among other things. Ratings change by chapter, so be warned.
1. o1: red

AN: Well, here we are again, huh? Chapter one of "Palettes", the epilogue to "The History of the World".��

ALERT! Spoilers and references to my previous story will be made; I highly suggest reading that story first!

Some things to note are that these are much shorter, and so, I may update several at a time. Each chapter has a color for its theme, thus the story's name. 

This little chapter takes place a few months after Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney reunite.

**o1. red**

Today, she is wearing a red dress, deep scarlet, and gazing at it as he descends the stairs, he is instantly reminded of blood.

This doesn't surprise him in the slightest, being a man who has seen the color spill out onto his clothes, onto the floor, the windows and his own barber's chair, a man who not only has seen the color frequently, but revels in the sight of it.

Today, seeing her wearing that dress, he is overcome with nostalgia.

It is morning, and she's sitting impatiently at the table in the small rundown kitchen, drumming her fingers on the wooden tabletop, gazing longingly at the kettle on the stove, as if willing it to let out its screech, an indication of the tea being hot enough to drink. Upon his entrance into the room, her eyes dart away for a brief second, her mouth curves up in a secret smile, and then, as if it never happened, she's back to gazing at the tea kettle. 

Sitting down next to her, he says: "You know the saying, Mrs. Lovett...A watched pot never--"

"--boils, yes, I know, Mr. T. But this ain't a pot. That's a tea kettle."

"Nevertheless," he murmurs, leaning over the table to run a hand across her cheek, "It will not heat any faster, with you staring at it like that."

At his touch, she's suddenly melted, forgetting the tea, and grinning. The red dress makes a shifting noise, of fabric against skin, as she stands, and sits down next to him, kissing him lightly on the cheek. 

"That dress," he tells her, his hand reaching down, and taking the fabric between his fingers. 

"I got it from that Singer woman. Said she didn't want it."

Breathe hitting her slender neck, he whispers: "You look lovely in it."

As if she knows, knows that he's referring to his second favorite color (the first being silver), a coy smirk plays across her lips before she wraps her arms about his neck, touching her forehead to his (a small, affectionate gesture that they seem to have agreed upon), and eying him, brown eyes shimmering with amusement.

"You like the color?" 

It's almost like she's provoking him, and as she runs a hand down his arm, he finds his hands on her back, gazing at all this red, surrounding her pale skin; she truly looks beautiful. Almost fitting her nickname, the one the citizens of London have given her: the Devil's wife. 

It would make him the Devil himself, but this is all in the past, a life they have left behind, the kind of living they visit occasionally, on their stays in the city, but never fully return to. 

"Yes," he hisses, as her lips graze against his, tantalizing. 

"That is a shame," she says, pulling back, his fingers losing their hold on her back as she stands. "I had almost forgot the tea."

He is suddenly realizing the kettle is whistling, and he pouts as she walks over to pick it off the stove, pouring it into a cup that's already waiting for her. She keeps looking over her shoulder, though, as if she's finding this all very funny. 

She loves to be cruel.

Coming back to the table, she's holding two cups, one in each delicate hand, and instead of reaching for the cup of tea, he reaches for her.

�


	2. 02: yellow

AN: Well, here's another little chapter! This one is "yellow" themed because of the sunflower, and the sunny day.

**o2. yellow**

"Checkmate," Toby says, smiling in his victory, the third of the day, and Mrs. Lovett groans. 

"You're too good," she protests, sharing his glee, despite her loss. "I'm new at this, Toby, s'really not fair."

They are companions, once again, and Toby is happier than he's ever been. For the first time, they seem like a family, all three of them, even Mr. Todd, whose generally morose expression had been replaced with one of tentative interest, and a secretly pleased look in his eyes, a sort of glint of amusement whenever she was nearby. 

Sitting on small crates they had lifted up from the pie shop, Toby and Mrs. Lovett were playing chess on a hopelessly beaten up set they had seen earlier that day on a merchant's table at the open air market. 

To their right, as they sat under the large window, was the barber's chair, a menacing thing that had once served its purpose well, and faithfully. Mr. Todd had something of a sentimental attachment to the chair, smiling as if remembering fond memories whenever they set foot in the shop.

Toby had learned chess from Johanna, who had acquired her own knowledge of the game from her surrogate father, the Judge Turpin. Smiling as she had arranged the pieces, she had told Toby:

_"He was a wicked man, but I think he did love me, as a father loves his daughter. In his own way. I only ever felt close to him when we played chess, isn't that silly?"_

Quickly becoming a good player, he had never beaten Johanna, although he had easily managed a victory against Mr. Todd, who had muttered something about not liking silly games like chess anyways upon his defeat. Mrs. Lovett had only played a handful of times in her lifetime--she had confessed--with her husband, poor dear Albert. 

Mrs. Lovett leans back, looking out to the precarious chimneys and their curling tufts of smoke, and above, the gray clouds being tainted black with the billowing streams of ash. Despite London's dirty and dingy appearance, today there is a bit of sunlight, peeking in through little cracks in the clouds,�illuminating the whole room with golden light, making her remember the�way it used to look, with its yellow-striped wallpaper, the sun always shining. Today is a good day, though, even better than her memory's vision of a sunny day.�Looking to Toby, she smiles.

"You've grown into quite the young man, you know."

He has the good manners to flush, rubbing his neck, embarrassed at this. Perking up, he gives her a grin.

"Have I really, mum?" 

At the use of this name, she seems to soften around the edges, no longer the woman changed by the times, starved for happiness, but a truly content person, happy to have her son call her mother. Even if they are not truly mother and son.

"'course you 'ave. Grown up right and proper. Mr. Todd's somewhat responsible, I'd think, but you've always been a good lad. I always thought so," she confesses, reaching over to ruffle his ivory hair. 

He looks down to the chessboard, thoughtful. 

"You an' Mr. Todd...You love 'im, don't you?"

Mrs. Lovett's lips tighten, and returning her gaze to the window, she seems to ponder this.

"Yeah, I reckon I do," she murmurs, "I still love him, the impossible man. He truly is the most frustrating, stubborn--"

But she stops when she sees he's laughing, and gives him a withering look. 

"You really do," he says, pointing at her, trying to suppress his chuckles. "He loves you, you know. Really."

At this, her eyes widen, and her cheeks seem to flush. Bending forward, she looks him straight in the eye. 

"How could you possibly know such a thing, Toby?"

"Easy," he quips, taking up the king piece in his fingers, moving his hand over its smooth shape, carved from marble. "'Mr. Todd, 'e usually has this sort of restless look, see, and he never smiles, usually, but now...now that you've come back, 'e's been sort of...settled. He has purpose, in his face. Just like before, when he was livin' 'ere with you downstairs. Like he knows exactly what to do. And he smiles, even if it's a little smile, when you're nearby. 'e fancies you something awful, Mrs. Lovett. Really."

Her eyes seem to flicker like a candle, obviously pleased at this, and pulling back away from him, the secret divulged, she takes up her queen piece and the bishop.

"Let's play again, then, shall we?"

Nodding, they move to re-arrange the set when the door gives its familiar ring, and in steps the very man they had spoken of, and the two of them share a conspiratorial glance, Toby's one of smug confidence, and Nellie's one of enlightened observance, eager to see if what the boy has confessed to her is actually the truth. 

Sweeney Todd removes his jacket to reveal a mess of red all over his white shirt, and Mrs. Lovett frowns.

"I just washed that shirt," she scolds, lips playing into a smile despite her tone of annoyance. 

He nods, shrugging out of the jacket entirely, and then, reaching into the pocket, he produces a single sunflower, bold and yellow, a splash of intensely bright color in the otherwise blandly�grey room, making the sunlight struggling through the glass that much significant, that much brighter. Handing it to her, he leans in, kissing her on the cheek. Looking her in the eye, she's suddenly quite aware that he knows exactly what he's doing, at this moment.

"Sunflowers," he tells her, "Symbolize adoration, Eleanor."

Then he's sitting in the barber's chair, eying the chess set with a wary distaste, as if�what�he just did had�never happened, his face blank.

Fingering the petals of the yellow flower, she is too flustered for words. She can recall when Benjamin Barker did this for Lucy, every day, running up those steps, smiling like a little boy, carrying a different sort of flower each day, and she can recall longing for him to do the same for her. Dreaming of him coming in the door, holding a bouquet in his hands, as if to say _"It's all for you."_ This is more than she dreamed of, when she fantasized about this sort of thing, more than she expected from Mr. Todd, when she returned after five years, not expecting anything from him save for a subtle change in his attitude towards her.

But he's given her more than that, so much more. He's certainly outdone himself. 

Toby coughs, and she is startled into reality, and their new chess game.

As they play, and Mr. Todd watches, Toby takes no caution in whispering to her:

"I told you so, didn't I?"


	3. o3: orange

AN: Another update. One of the reasons this is going up so fast is because I wrote all of these during the writing of "The History of The World". This is one of my favorites. 

Thanks to everyone who is reviewing and adding this to your favorites, and...I do not own Sweeney Todd, though I WILL own the DVD the instant it comes out on April 1st. 

**o3. Orange**

The waves crashing upon the shore are gentle today, as Mrs. Lovett, clad in her stocking feet, peers out the window of the bedroom, staring intently at the horizon beyond, watching with fascination as the sun peeks over the line of the ocean, illuminating the clouds, tainting them pink and orange. The day is barely cloudy, and there's no trace of fog, and as her hands grip the windowsill, she squeals in delight.

Since she can remember, she's been fascinated with the sea. 

She's not illiterate, and when she had worked in the factory, alongside the other girls, she had saved up a secret stash of money, buying books and things when she could.

She can recall going into the bookseller's, running hands along all the gold stamped spines, dark reds and greens, the smell of leather filling the air and mixing with the strong stench of old paper. The book-keeper was an old man whose spindly, trembling fingers navigated the store's organized shelves with nimbleness from a man half his age.

She had picked it up off the shelf, somewhat curious, and had been enchanted. The book was called _Illustrations and Writings on the British Sea, _and she'd poured over it, until the pages were worn and the book threadbare.

She's sure she doesn't have it anymore, but she can remember looking at the pictures, reading the text, describing sands and the water and the warm sun, and she can remember, as a young girl looking at the book, almost being able to feel the sun on her skin, smell the salt in the air, and had longed to go there.

It was in that bookstore, years later, as a married woman, that she'd first set eyes upon Benjamin Barker.

Albert had stopped in to pick up some sort of book, and she had came with him, curious to see if the old man was still there. He had been, wheezing and sputtering, still hobbling about the shop on his shaky legs. Albert having gone into another corner of the shop, Nellie had slipped into the section on Britain's geography, sliding out a book about the English seaside, flipping it open.

"I've always wanted to go to the sea," a voice behind her had said, and she'd whirled about, giving a little gasp of surprise, like a child who'd been caught taking food. 

The man's kind eyes clouded with concern, eyebrows furrowing, fretting, in a way that was still handsome, leaning nearer to her. Holding the book between them, she'd smiled weakly.

"Ah, well, s' but a dream, really," she had stammered, putting the book back. 

The man was about the same age as herself, and yet, she had seen him as being infinitely youthful, full of that hope and optimism that so many more privileged people her own age had. She had had no time for optimism; practicality had all but replaced it.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so quick to think that," he had replied, seeming reassured that he'd not done anything but startled her. "Anything's possible, I think, Miss...?"

She had almost spoken her maiden name, but caught herself. "Lovett. Mrs. Lovett."

"Well, Mrs. Lovett, I'm very glad to meet you. I'm Benjamin Barker."

They had spoken briefly, and she had told him to stop by for a pie at her shop, and he had smiled, ever the polite gentleman, holding her hand and bowing as she left, Albert walking ahead of her, preoccupied.

And he'd come to the shop, soft smile lighting up her room, and had asked about the room upstairs, and whether it was vacant. 

It was only a few years later he'd married Lucy, the most amazing look of happiness on his face when he raced back to tell her his love had accepted his proposal. She'd done her best to be happy for him, later going into the bakehouse, the one place no-one else went, and crying her eyes out. 

It had been a long time since then, she thinks now, as she tip-toes over to the bed, reaching underneath the wooden frame to grab her shoes. 

Still sleepy, Sweeney Todd himself, formerly Benjamin Barker, rolls over, eyes half-open as she sits back down on the bed, lacing the boots quickly.

"It's early," he comments hoarsely.

"Very observant of you, love," she says, grinning. 

"Why're you up?"

"I want to go down to the water. The sun's risin'."

"Ah," he breathes, rolling back to the other side of the bed, settling back into sleep with a contented sigh. 

Placing a quick kiss on his cheek (under which he squirms, seeming embarrassed at this gesture) she leaves, out the door of the small house and to the sea.

The wind isn't strong at all, and it's a perfectly clear day. 

Her shoes are back off by the time she reaches the wet sand, wincing as she steps into the cold waters, laughing. 

Until now, she hadn't ever dreamed that her fantasy of living by the sea could ever be possible. Until this moment, she'd had her doubts. And of course, this is nothing like how she imagined, but...She's not inclined to care.

The sky is a limitless blue, and the sun is pouring over the horizon, like a golden stone into a glass of cool water. 

If there's anything she has learned in this life, it is that anything is possible. 


	4. o4: rose

AN: Waaah, I'm so so so so sorry for not updating in forever! I went on vacation over spring break to New York, visiting relatives, which is obviously not the best place to write a romance fanfic, especially considering my two teenaged boy cousins. So I apologize.

This chapter is dedicated to **xlawa**, who was so amazingly wonderful to dedicate a extremely awesome chapter of her one-shot collection to me. Thank you! In the spirit of that particular chapter, here's something a little more mature than what I've written in this category before...

Also, this takes place pretty much directly after the ending of "The History of The World" a.k.a they kiss, happy ending, etc. so here's what happened next.

**o4. rose**

He is the first to pull away, seeming to stagger slightly as he does so, eyes wide as if woken from sleep, a quick smile playing across his swollen lips. His hands immediately wrap back around her waist, and he's moving fast, a shuffle of shoes and the sound of fabrics rubbing together as he presses her to the wallpaper, between Johanna's wedding portrait, and the doorway, lips now going to her neck, pausing only to give her a hungry look.

She sighs into his hair, hands gripping his shoulders, feeling drunk, but knowing it has nothing to do with alcohol, rather this feeling of obtaining something she has wanted for as long as she can remember, having placed him into her very being oh so long ago, her very existence depending upon the constant prescience of Sweeney Todd in her thoughts, and it's only now, as he kisses her again, that she's realizing this, a dependency on him. In fact, thinking now, she's sure it's the thought of him that saved her, when she was in the well in Italy, desperate and struggling. To think she'd never see him again, if she died, she knows she couldn't bear it.

Of course, they've only just resolved their differences, their betrayals, and this is something they shouldn't do, not now, much like picking at a fresh wound, but there is a frenzied need in their touches, the way he runs his hands down her spine, the way she holds tight to him, like a castaway lost at sea that tells them both to ignore rational thought.

In some ways, they both need this anyway.

And then, he lets go, stepping backward, breathing heavily, running a hand nervously through his hair.

"I..." He begins, trying to form a sentence, breathless.

She too is panting, finally slumping against the wall, feeling a lot like jelly, and sure she's red in the face. Wiping away a wisp of hair, she smirks despite herself, trying (needing) to tempt him back as best she could, given she's just nearly struck dumb by the last half hour's events.

He comes back to her, tenderly taking her hands in his own, touching his forehead to hers in a way that makes her heart melt. Looking at him up close now, she sees his eyes are really a deep brown, and she recalls that Benjamin Barker once looked at her with such endearing eyes as this man's, that his smile, so easy and perfect, now fills Sweeney Todd's own face.

"Eleanor," he tells her quite seriously, still panting, "If you don't want this now..."

She opens her mouth to speak, but stops when notices he's looking at her, almost mournfully.

"I don't want..." He begins, biting his lip tentatively. "...I don't want to hurt you in any way, do you understand? If this is too much..."

Nellie nods, bringing their clasped hands to her lips, and kissing his hands.

"I don't know about you," she tells him in a half-whisper, "But I 'ave been waiting much too long to have to wait anymore, 'specially after all this mess. And to be quite honest with you (we're tryin' to tell each other th' truth, right?) I must admit..."

She leans near his ear, and murmurs:

"I've been dreamin' of this for so long, you couldn't stop me if you tried."

He laughs. "You? Overpower me? Somehow I can't quite doubt it...I suppose I have no choice then, do I?"

"No," she replies, smiling now, "I don't think you do."

"Hmmm," he says, sweeping her up into his arms so he can carry her. "Well then...You may do whatever you like, since I am helpless to stop you."

Burying her face in his neck, she breathes in deeply his scent; it's a mixture of fresh ocean breeze and his own shaving lather, which almost suprises her, considering he had a stock of colgnes, at his room on Fleet Street. Perhaps he never used them, or never bothered to think of them. Looping arms about his neck, she watches his face, fascinated, as he carries her upstairs as if she weighed nothing at all.

This is probably a result of the work he was put through in Botany Bay. Thinking suddenly of his own scars (she's sure he has some), she carefully unbuttons the top two clasps on his shirt, exposing his neck to the open air. Thin bands of scar tissue clutch at the edge of his shoulders, continuing past down his back. Seeming to sense a question, he answers:

"Whip marks."

Ever the eloquent one, Mr. Todd.

Nellie rolls her eyes, but understands his bluntness to a certain extent. It's obvious he doesn't talk about his life as a felon (even a false felon) often.

His room is as bare as the barber's shop, with scarcely anything for decorations, save a small wooden box on the dresser that contains (as she'd be told later) all of Johanna's letters since her leaving London on her honeymoon.

Back on solid ground, she's feeling more light-headed than before, a sort of "I can't believe this is happening" feeling that causes her to sit down upon the bed, eyes locked on him.

There is a perfect moment now, as she sits on the downy covers, as he looks at her, not knowing she's looking at him, and she watches as his face fills with a lucid expression. Awake again at last, like a man who had stumbled blindly through the dark, only to find an open window, light shining in like a beacon. Feeling forgiven for the first time in a long time.

It is this, and nothing else, that makes her face suddenly redden considerably, feeling flushed at the thought that it's her that's bringing such enlightenment to him. She too feels clean, now that she's got nothing to hide from him, no guilt knotting her stomach or naive notions filling her head, blinding her in a different way, yet...They are so much the same. Gaze flickering to the mirror, Mrs. Lovett realizes her cheeks are a bright, rosy pink.

Then he catches her eye, and straightens, black hair falling in his eyes. As if to say, _look at me._

He smiles a secretive smile, and locks the door behind him.


	5. o5: white

AN: Fluff, fluff, fluff. Bah.

Erm, a small update. Enjoy!

* * *

**o5: white**

Before Nellie Lovett collided into his life once more, forever, flipping his perspective up on its perverbal head, and before he let her back into his home, his arms, his bed, Sweeney Todd had been having trouble sleeping.

This was not to say that it had been difficult to _fall_ asleep. That was simple enough, all it required was closing his eyes.

But it was when he was enveloped in darkness, seemingly peaceful, that a strange, panicked feeling overcame him in his sleep, and he was suddenly in utter agony, twisting about as if being wrung dry, like a wet cloth. What brought this anixiety upon him while he slept, he had no true idea, although he had, even then, suspected it had something to do with the ever familiar demons that had followed him since he can remember being Sweeney Todd.

And the memories, of course, of bloodied neck, bloodied blades, and the expressions on their faces, in such shock. Wanting so badly to live, to be alive.

There is something beautiful in it, he thinks, the way a person realizes, just before oblivion takes them, that they have things unfinished: the person they never confessed their love for, their estranged children, the book they wanted to write, all of it, gone. And they realize it is all so precious, something to hold onto with a vice grip.

Oh, but it's too late, and there is the tragic beauty.

He remembers so clearly her own "death", a pale, lovely thing (although he's only started to notice this, as of late), splattered with blood, like a string of rubies across her swan's neck, brown eyes gazing still at him, only him.

Sweeney Todd only realized recently, as she stood beneath him in Venice, yelling his name, a fire in her eyes, that the cause of nightmares was not guilt.

Routine being his most favorite thing, he had become accustomed to the way a person died; regretting their death, then slipping away. But Mrs. Lovett had only stared at him, hand reaching, shaking, to him, eyes dull and lifeless.

Like she had just discovered there was no point in living.

It had so deeply unsettled him, he had not even realized it, until she had returned, as full of vigor and determination as ever, that what he'd felt then was a deep sadness, to see her, a person he admired for her vitality, so completely disillusioned.

And it had been his fault.

This was the center-point of his torment, which branched into several different feelings: anger (at her lies), confusion (did he love her? hate her?), lucid realization (rare), and remorse, for he'd taken away the thing that had kept her going all those hard years: himself.

The nightmares had become such a constant in his life, that he shocked himself to find he awakened the next morning feeling refreshed. Clean.

Next to him, she sleeps peacefully, scars marring her shoulders, moving in time with her breathing.

He clears one strand of hair away from her face, and she doesn't move, or stir.

Sweeney Todd laughs, a crystal clear sound, joyous in its freedom.

Peace has swept into his life, at last. Storm clouds will no longer rage within the recesses of his mind.

And this, he knows, is the greatest gift she could ever give him.


	6. o6: blue

AN: **ALERT ALERT ALERT!** THIS CHAPTER IS RATED **M** FOR MATURE SITUATIONS! AGAIN, IT'S **M **FOR MATURE!

But seriously folks, it is. Although honestly, I dunno if it's all that bad, I'm really awful at writing smut, so I certainly do not go into horrible, awful detail, this was just an idea that has been bothering me, and I've written thusly. I'm very proud of it, but critique is welcome, as always. If you believe this is okay to be rated "T", let me know!

This story is based upon another fanfic, for the anime Bleach, which was incredibly awesome called "The Play of Clouds and Rain". It's a lot different of course, in its context and characters, but the initial idea of the shaved ice thing comes from that fic, I take no credit for it. ;

ALSO: I really, really couldn't name this chapter, so I'm keeping it as "blue", simply because blue is a relaxing color, at least, for me it is.

Enjoy!

* * *

**o6: blue**

The day is stifling; the sort of heat that presses upon you like a heavy weight, making you sluggish, irritable and downright exhausted.

Regardless of the fact that Nellie has raced about the entire house, opening windows to their fullest, she's absolutely miserable in this heat, sweat dripping down her brow as she collapses onto the small settee in the parlor of the beach-side home owned by Sweeney Todd.

During the course of this, the hottest day so far this summer, she's removed layer upon layer of her usual clothing, until now, at three in the afternoon, she's wearing only her slip, a silky thing that is pale green.

Staring out the open window at the shimmering surface of the sand, she can only imagine how hot the stuff must feel underneath a person's bare feet.

Unaccustomed to this hot day, Nellie wonders how she'll survive the summer, simmering in her clothes, distinctly uncomfortable, and as if on cue, in slides Mr. Todd himself, holding in his hand a glass full of shaved ice, flavored with red syrup. Lifting the spoon to his lips, he savors the coldness rushing into his mouth, running his tongue over the utensil as it leaves his mouth in seductive way, purposely, grinning as he pretends to only just notice Eleanor, looking at him as if he's a pool of water she's spend hours crawling to while trapped in a desert.

"Well," he says, and his voice sounds colder and more soothing than the ice he's flaunting in her face. "You've certainly managed to find a unique way to...endure...the weather today, I see."

With this comment comes an almost customary glance across her body, exposed more significantly to the open air than is usual for her. His eyes glitter with a tender possessiveness, like a mother cat with its kitten.

Sweeney smirks as she lifts her head reluctantly to reply, lifting a finger only to drop her arm back to her side.

"I see that this hasn't been enjoyable."

In some sick way, she is certain he is enjoying her suffering, although this would do nothing except simply further confirm her theory that dear Mr. Todd was something of a sadist, and could not really be trusted to help a person out of painful or discomforting positions.

Of course, he's dressed as he always is, in his black slacks, black vest and white shirt, with his grey jacket over it all, just as if he's been frozen (ah, frozen) in time, exactly the way he looked when he still inhabited London, slaying citizens and gaining himself the reputation of being the "Demon Barber of Fleet Street". Not a single bead of sweat shows on his face or neck and there is no betrayal of any sort of annoyance in his face at the heat that plagues them.

No, if anything, Sweeney Todd is simply his usual self, albeit a bit more smug than usual.

Nellie supposes it has something to do with a difference in comfort levels; while she has spent all her life in Britain, where sunny days are uncommon, and there is such a thing as distinct seasons, he has only recently returned from fifteen years on Australia, a place so foreign, that she can only imagine how hot it must have been there, practically on the equator.

As she thinks of it, the image of Mr. Todd, shirtless, toiling in the red Australian sun comes into her mind, and she has to suppress a smile, accompanied with a faint blush.

Sitting down next to her, hair unmussed and clothes perfectly placed, he slips another spoonful of the shaved ice into his mouth, and tells her, through delightful crunches:

"You simply don't know how to relax, Eleanor."

The use of her first name, both wonderful and infuriating, makes her clench her knuckles, watching the slowly melting ice, red, like blood, swirling about under the influence of Mr. Todd's spoon.

"Really," she drawls, playing along, tilting her head to the side in an irritated way. "What d'you want me to do about it, Mr. T? I ain't gonna go onto that hot sand to get to th' ocean, if that's what you're thinkin'. It's too hot."

He laughs, shaking his head.

"No, you don't need to go in the ocean."

His strong hands, like vices, grip her shoulders, and there is a flutter of red material produced from a pocket of his coat, and suddenly, her world is only the color red.

He's _blindfolded _her.

"What exactly--" she begins, but fingers press to her lips as there is a sound of clinking glass, the cup of shaved ice being set down upon the tabletop.

"Shh," he tells her. "Just _relax_."

Now deprived of her sight, she squirms uncomfortably underneath what she's sure is his mischievous look, feeling anything but relaxed, seriously doubting her ability to do as he commands her in this situation.

That impossible, bloody fool of a--

He trails a hand along her arm, producing small shivers from his Mrs. Lovett.

"It's too hot, Mr. Todd," she protests, flushing with embarassment to show so openly the extent his touch affects her.

"Mmm," is his reply, making small circles on her shoulder.

"I'm tired, Mr. T."

"Hrrm."

"_Sweeney_," she says, hands pushing open air (thick, stifling air) in an attempt to push him away.

Any other day, any other instance, she'd be dizzy from all this unexpected attention (although, the heat has made her dizzy), and she'd love him, even more in this moment (which is not to say she does not love him; but the man is trying her patience at this point).

His arms wrap about her waist, strong and inescapable, and she's been moved so that she is sideways upon his lap, leaning against one of the arms of the settee for support.

The hot breeze hits her face and neck from outside, and this serves to make her less receptive to his advances.

"I'm afraid," he whispers to her, breath on her ear, "That you have brought this upon yourself, Eleanor, by lying here, out in the open for me to see. Especially when you're wearing only..."

His voice trails off into a quiet grumble, making her stomach do a flip.

"So, simply try and _relax_, as I've said before."

She opens her mouth to snap a retort at him, but his head is behind her now, and out of range of her fists, or her lips.

"Ah," she whispers, silenced by his movements.

First, his hands trail up her back, caressing briefly her neck and spine, the scars that he inflicted, still red and angry. Turning and tilting her jaw so she leans back, able to see him, if only her eyesight was not obstructed. His lips fall onto hers, and he tastes like cherry syrup, like the flavouring of his summer treat, his mouth colder than anything she's felt since a month ago, when spring began to end. She relishes it, this sudden wave of coolness upon her tongue as he takes one of her hands, and ends their kiss.

There is a long pause, in which she's sure he's relishing his victory, smirking as he usually does when teasing her, and she frowns, eyes straining against the fabric of the red cloth to _see_ him, for she loves to look at him, look upon his face as he smiles, grimaces, glares, and his eyes as they kindle with flame, darkening just as quickly.

He's going to pay for this, pay forever and _ever_.

And then, she feels his lips upon her neck, tongue and teeth running gently, then harshly, over the collarbone on either side, then her very throat, kissing gently the thin line where her scar lies, the reminder of his crimes, and hers.

Sweat now beads upon her back, making her slip cling to her skin more than before, and, seeming to notice this, his hand trails to the straps of the offending article of clothing, sliding them down to her elbows, moving to her shoulder-blades.

She barely suppresses a moan, and tries her best to think of anything else, anything other than his lips, and _him_.

Eyes covered in red, she closes them and listens to the quiet crush of ocean waves upon the distant sand, the slight (oh so slight) breeze rustling the high dune grass, the sound of insects chirping. With nothing to look at, she must imagine the green of the plants, the blue of the sea, the tan color of the sand, and it's remarkable to her, how the image explodes and blossoms in her mind, how easy it is to envision these things, how familiar the vision is to her now.

As if this place has become her home, as if she's always lived here.

In some ways, she supposes, she has lived here all her life, for this home is what she's pictured and planned and dreamed of since she was a young girl. Each detail had been covered, down to the finish she would put on the wood of the furniture.

Of course, the reality is that this place is not exactly like her imaginings, but of course, Nellie knows that her fantasy was never really possible.

But this is better, because it is real, and she can touch the wood of the walls, the panes of glass, looking out onto the seaside, able to walk into the small surf if she so desires.

In her reverie, she's nearly gone comatose, with the effects of Sweeney Todd's ministrations, and her own wandering mind, but as his hands slide to her breasts, she snaps out of her daze, fighting back the urge to arch against him.

Then, suddenly, his touch is gone from her skin, and there's another shuffle of clothing and bodies, and she's lying on her back on the couch, bare back rubbing uncomfortably against the cushion. She can hear him walking on the floorboards, and then there's a metal clink.

Her heart rushes, filled with a sort of thrilled terror, to wonder he's going to do next.

Sweeney's hand pulls down on the top of her slip, until it's fallen to her knees, as while the coolness of it's refreshing, she's furious that she's so exposed to him, without the ability to stare at him, and fix him with a withering look.

His voice suddenly comes out of the silence, silky smooth:

"Well? Are you relaxed now?"

Squirming again, she snaps back at him between breaths, anxious with suspense:

"_No!_"

There's no reply, only the sound of a spoon hitting glass, then the soft crush of ice being scooped up, and

_splat_.

The shock of the shaved ice against her bare neck makes her cry out in surprise, then bit her lip, fuming. She's sure he's finding this all very, very funny.

Oh, and then his mouth is upon the spoonful of ice, trailing it down her chest...

She stiffens, biting her fist to keep from--

Lower, past her navel...

-- yelling, and--

When she can finally breath again, she reaches up and tugs on the cloth until it falls away from her eyes, and then, when she can properly look at him, he's smiling like a cat with a mouse, so very much loving the way she grabs him by the collar, fiercely attacking his mouth again while tugging at the button of his shirt.

It's too _hot_, and she's much too _agitated_, but at this point she doesn't care at all, she really couldn't care less...

Moving together, they collapse a few minutes later, sighing against the settee.

Nellie leans her head back to look outside, watching as a single seagull flys in the sky.

Mr. Todd rests his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes, looking infinitely pleased with how this day has gone.

Of course, she could do all numbers of things to pay him back for this torture she's endured, victim of his every whim, however...

_The history of the world, my pet, is learn forgiveness and try to forget._

Well, she's certainly not going to forget this, he's made sure of that, but...

Instead of doing any of the countless things she could do to get revenge, Eleanor shifts until she's comfortable.

She closes her eyes, and breathes deeply.

AN: ...Well?

Reviews are loved and cherished.


	7. o7: green

AN: Oh ho ho ho! You thought I'd left, didn't you? Well I didn't!

Yet another sloppy love chapter, yay. I am so very fond of them, you really have no idea. But I swear, I promise I'll write something in here that isn't so...fluffy. Yeah, sometime soon. Anyhow, I hope this makes up for my long period of not updating. It's rather hefty, the longest chapter yet.

The chapter title is green because it reminds me of inner calm.

**o7: green**

The waves crash against the shore, pounding the sand, cold, and wet. Winds from winter still breeze by, careless and full of recklessness, blasting into a body like a rampaging animal, going through one's skin as if through thin paper, chilling you to the bone, making your teeth chatter.

Cruel storms brewed in the distance, on the ocean's top, spraying white foam up in the air, like blood from an open wound.

But this early morning, Sweeney Todd was not thinking of blood, or battle or fury.

In fact, he was asleep in his favorite chair, an old, beaten up red one, with faux velvet upholstery that was moth-eaten and worn. And yet, it was comfortable, and he had in positioned in the window of the parlor, near both the small stove that warmed the room, and a window looking out to the sea and sands beyond the tiny beach shack.

Cheek and forehead pressed on the cold glass, he slept peacefully, neck craned as his entire upper body leaning against the window pane. His expression was almost peaceful, a slight frown with a set mouth. He breathed lightly.

The wind blew by, rattling the window loudly and forcefully enough to rouse him from slumber, and sit up, immediately wincing as his neck protested its pain in staying in such an odd position all night as he slept. Rotating his neck and shoulders, he sighs, slumping back in the chair, and closing his eyes again.

Silly storms. A downside to living by the ocean in such weather as this.

However, he's warm, because the stove is lit, and there's a coat covering his body.

On any other occasion, he would have been annoyed, and somewhat perplexed as to who had placed this jacket on him. But today...Today, Sweeney Todd only smiles despite himself.

It has been too long since she had had an opportunity to fret over him catching a cold.

Mrs. Lovett...

He was initially surprised to hear, so long ago now, it seems, that she had lived. But he had thought of her, and that indomitable nature of hers, and now, he was not so shocked to know she'd survived his attempt on her life.

No...She was much stronger than that. And if anything, she probably stayed alive out of fury at him, for killing her. Not that she was justified in such revenge. She had lied to him about his wife.

No...Benjamin Barker's wife.

Sweeney Todd, once known by such a title, had quietly but mournfully accepted that he was not that man any longer. Benjamin Barker was not him, and however much he had tried to make the man's memories and life his own life, his own memories and love, he knew, somehow, that it could never happen.

Too much had happened, and he could not take back what had been done to him.

He was Sweeney Todd, murdering barber. Merciless and clever, cold and emotionless. Of course, he found Johanna was one small deviation from this. When he saw his daughter, not even fifteen years in a prison camp could suppress his pride, and admiration for his darling girl. And while Benjamin Barker would have been a much more suitable parent, Sweeney had dismissed this.

If anything, he would be a good father to Johanna. He could do that; he deserved to love his daughter. It was the one thing they could not steal from him.

Sweeney Todd was not a good man, but he was still human. And now, he wanted to rest.

Sleeping peacefully was still new to him, a new feeling to wake up in the morning, and feel as if he had relaxed. Taking a deep breath, he had never felt so good. So alive.

It probably had something to do with _her_, of course.

At the thought, he hears a small clinking noise from the kitchen, and leans forward, spotting Mrs. Lovett there, pouring tea from the kettle, her back turned to him.

He grins.

She's wearing a dress from the old days, when she wore gaudy, showy clothes (mostly, he thinks now, to attract his attention, which it never did) and leaned into him, asking him to look. Today, she wears the dress he killed her in (he loves the thought of this, saying he killed her, but there she is, plain as anything). It has a low back, intricate knots starting at her lower back, giving him a view of her porcelain skin and neck.

But it is the scar that fascinates him.

Like a sunburst, it is red and vicious looking, a ferocious thing, tendrils looping away, spreading almost like wings along her shoulders, tiny intricate lines spreading from the base of the burn mark on her spine. It starts at the bottom of her neck, and ends about mid-back, and he adores her for this mark.

He has told her that it is beautiful; whispered it to her as he runs his hands along it, caressing each twist and turn, soft as anything, even as she squeezes her eyes shut, and steadies her breath.

She has more scars on the inside, he thinks, than these on her back and shoulders. It took him a good deal of time to coax her into letting him hold her, hands resting on her back without her stiffening, shuddering at his touch and closeness.

Their kiss had been an exception; she was more trying to prove a point than anything, and her longing for him exceeded her fear of what had occurred. But afterwards, it had been difficult.

Now, now that she's warmed to him (he laughs quietly at this, thinking how much their roles have been reversed) it has been lovely.

She whirls about, taking easy strides into the parlor, and over the rim of her teacup, she spots him gazing at her, and her eyes sparkle with a smile.

Sitting on the arm of the chair, she rests a hand on his shoulder.

"You want a cup?", she asks, holding it up, steam rising from its depths. He shakes his head.

"Maybe later," he murmurs, eying the fire blazing in the stove. Nodding to it, he looks back at her.

"You lit it? The oven?"

Nodding, she sips from the cup, and stares outside, brown eyes reflecting the grey light from outside. He resists the urge to run hands over her back right now, having memorized every path along the burn, and kiss her. Instead, he rests a hand on the small of her back, to which she straightens slightly, and then gives an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," she begins, "Force of habit now, I s'pose..." She looks somewhat downcast, as if this reaction is saddening. He reaches up, tentatively, and runs a hand down her cheek.

"I'll wait, as long as you need," he says, and then, grins. "_Wait, love. Wait._"

Her lips curve upward, and she leans into his hand, closing her eyes. "I was always tellin' you...Be patient. Learned your lesson, I think."

"Indeed." He opens his arms, welcoming her, and after a second where she gives him a suspicious glance, allows herself to slide off the arm of the chair, and onto his lap, where he immediately wraps both arms about her waist, and leans his head on her bare (albeit warm) shoulder, giving a contented sigh. She hits him lightly on top on his head, making a huffing noise of protest.

"You only wanted me closer cos I'm warm, is that it?"

"Mmmm."

"Mr. Todd!"

He chuckles into her neck, kissing her scar there. She shivers under his touch, which only serves to make him even more amused. Mrs. Lovett squirms, struggling to break away from him, but he only pulls her closer, cautiously, so as not to frighten her. Finally, she seems to give in, surrendering to the job of being a heat source, and leans back against his chest.

The silence between them is comfortable; she has changed in many ways, and this is one of them:

She does not constantly chatter when he's in the room. In fact, while she can speak for a long while as she had before, she is more prone to contemplative silences, and seems to understand his own need for them.

* * *

_The morning after she broke down his door with a pistol and knife at hand, he was already awake when she came downstairs, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, and upon catching sight of him, sitting in this very chair, she had not (as he had expected her to do) came straight up to him, fawning over him, whispering nonsense to him. Instead, she had given him a look and nod as a way of good morning, and set about making breakfast for herself. The silence that first morning had been frosty, and awkard, as if they hadn't known each other for twenty years (it always amazes him, this number). She had only spoken to him to ask if he wanted anything to eat._

_He had declined the food, instead grabbing her arms and pulling her face down to meet his own lips. _

* * *

"Is it always so horrid?" She asks, glancing down at him, referring to the weather.

He pulls out of his reverie, and shakes his head. "No...S'only like this in winter, and early spring, I think. We'll come into the warm season, soon enough."

At the thought of _by the sea_, she becomes excited, and she places a hand in his hair, running nimble fingers through it gently.

"Is it lovely, the sea?"

He points outside. "It's out there, Eleanor."

She laughs. "No, not that. During summer."

"Oh." He pauses, remembering the sand, hot and sticking to your legs after walking in the water, and he remembers the sun, not at all like the oppressing sun in Australia, but light, a warm breeze cooling its rays. Looking to her, he finishes:

"Yes, it is lovely, I'd say. It's not like Australia. It's...different. Maybe because it holds better memories..." He trails off, but she seems to understand.

* * *

_In bed, he sits up, straight, breathing heavy from a nightmare. Sweat drips from his brow, and he turns to his left, eyes searching for..._

_His heart beats faster. She's not there, and--_

_Remembering that she's in the guest room, that what happened two nights ago was just...well, he can't define what happened and neither could she, he gets out of bed, and strides quickly into the room two doors away, right up to the bed, and she opens her eyes, eyebrows raised at first, seeming agitated, but upon seeing him, her face softens. _

_"Here," she says, reaching out a hand. _

_He takes it, and whispers: "It was a nightmare, and I..." Stopping, he shakes his head, and looks at her, pleading. He can't tell her what it was; he's never been able to tell anyone about the dreams that grip him, pulling him deeper until he is drowning._

_She nods, pulling him down onto the bed, sitting beside him. Leaning her head on his shoulder, she says nothing. _

_But somehow, he feels calmer. She knows, she knows he can't say it. She knows him better, he thinks, than he knows himself._

_From that night on, the guest room remains empty._

* * *

She has taken their past in stride.

_Learn forgiveness, and try to forget._

Yes, they are doing that. It's new now, whatever they have together. Both of them have walked down a path from which there is not return, both experiencing the same things (perhaps at different times, but they know each other because they are so alike in this way) and ultimately being haunted by the same demons.

They share the pain now. And he delights in it.

He loves feeling her fingers trailing circles on his shirt, hand resting on his. He loves her eyes, wild and full of fire, and her smile, as if she is hiding something, and she'll never tell. And he loves that she knows him, that she loves him. It is a strange feeling, to be loved exactly as you are.

As Sweeney Todd, he feels that it is significant.

"It was a living hell, wasn't it?" She whispers, breathing in his ear as her chin rests on his shoulder.

He stays silent, contemplating an reply to such a question. He leans his head back and gazes outside at the broiling ocean, the brewing storm in the distance, and the sand.

"Yes," he says, "They...They kept us in these little rooms, no light, no warmth, filthy little things, and then, they would drag us out into the sun...We were blind, and the sun would burn our skin and backs...It was worse than hell."

"That what changed you?"

The questions are different today, different than they were, five years ago. Five years ago, she asked him such things as "_Gilly flowers, Mr. T, or daisies?"_. Now she wants to know this?

But he complies.

"I suppose...I suppose it was what made the change worse. I was so angry...For the injustice of it all, for what they could do to Lucy and Johanna...It was this huge, massive anger, and then they ship me out there...where they work you until you're almost dead, then throw you in where sun never shines...Then do it all over again. And if you're dragging, you're punished...All of it changed me. Not just Australia."

"Like a match, starting the fire," she observes, her eyes lost in the flames from the stove.

"Yes," he whispers. "Yes, like that."

She is no longer the sort of woman to pry, to coax him into talking, even acknowledging her prescience. She doesn't need him, not really. Not anymore. In fact, she _shouldn't_ need him; he's mostly useless anyway, and a danger to everyone. Including himself.

And yet, in the instant she stood there, staring at him with nothing but adoration in those lovely eyes, unafraid, telling him she loved him, still...

He still cannot express how it made him feel...to know she's willing to love a monster. That she has always loved him, as this new man, this Sweeney Todd.

He might not ever tell, but he loves her for this. In all the ways he can still love (he's not sure he can truly love again, completely). It might not be perfect...But it is all he has, and she has told him (not in words, per se) that she is content with that.

And yet, as they sit there, silent, gazing out at this fantastic storm, warm from the stove's heat, he feels a distinct pain, to think he cannot give her more.

Or at least tell her how much she means.

* * *

_He stands at the ocean's edge, tentative, feet bracing for the horrid chill of the ocean's water, eyes closed, ready..._

_Small but strong hands are on his back, and he's off balance..._

_The water is freezing on his face and neck and shoulders...Soaking, he flips around so he's sitting, sputtering salt water, shocked. _

_She's standing over him, suppressing obvious laughter, which turns to a squeal of terror as he stands, scooping her up in his arms and hurling her, unceremoniously into the waves. _

_She's shivering as she comes up, coughing, and he grins. _

_"Eye for an eye," he teases, and she laughs again._

_There are moments like these, rare and few, when they forget what has happened. Forgetting who they are. _

* * *

Turning to him, she gives him a look of mischief.

"Let's go out, and look closer," she says, almost whispering.

Sitting up, she tugs his arms and drags him out the door, sliding in the sand, clad only in those flimsy shoes she insists on wearing.

Having slept in the parlor, he had had no time to change clothes, and is perfectly balanced as his boots sink into the ground beneath him, following behind her at a distance, watching with curiosity as her hair, wilder now in the strong winds, flies about her face, which requires her to reach a hand to push it away at least every ten seconds or so. Finally arriving on the wet sand, she waits, arms folded in annoyance as she watches him catch up.

The ocean is a deep green up close, furious and swollen, a living thing. The sound is deafening, a series of crashes and whispers of spraying foam, the waves rolling in, constant.

She yells over the noise, "Lord. It's almost beautiful, ain't it?"

He stares at her, a pale thing, fragile-looking and yet, so strong. A constant, never changing thing, she's one thing he knows will never leave, or change so drastically as he has. Her eyes are bright with a child-like wonder, at the same time knowing the weight of this sight they are privileged to look upon. Her mouth moves, and without being able to hear, he knows what she's doing.

_By the sea, Mr. Todd, that's the life I covet, by the sea, Mr. Todd..._

Without thinking, his hand slips into hers and grips tight.

_Don't let go of me. You keep me from drowning, don't you see?_

She squeezes back, and the look she gives him tells him it's alright. It's going to be alright, now.

He may not ever tell her how he feels. But somehow, he knows she doesn't need that from him.

For this, he loves her more.


End file.
